Tuesday, February 22, 2005

The Dad Gone Mad 500

I watched roughly 10 minutes of the Daytona 500 this weekend. Ten minutes is my threshold for auto racing unless there’s a five-car crash where someone’s head goes rolling down pit road or the announcer with the hard, barely intelligible Southern drawl squeals, “They’re running three abreast down the straight-away, y’all! Weeeeeeehooooo! I tell you hwut, dad-gummit, I ain’t never seen a race like this’n right here!”

Three abreast. Love that imagery.

One of my favorite things about watching race cars on TV is that they have little cameras mounted inside the cars to spy on the drivers and microphones that capture the fever-pitched chatter between the driver and his pit crew. I like to imagine what the camera would see if it was instead mounted on the dashboard of my car, spying on me as I swerve through rush hour traffic on my way to work.

7:25 a.m. -- Camera sees me kerplunk into the driver’s seat of my black Honda CR-V. I start the engine, rub the sleep from my eyes and read the sports page while the car heats up. Then, as I pull out of the Evans World Headquarters driveway, I go fishing for boogers.

7:35 a.m. – I stop at Starbucks. They’re out of cinnamon twists. I have a k’nipshin.

7:45 a.m. – I spill coffee in my crotch. I scream “Fuck!” at the top of my tired lungs. The announcer says something about me needing to maintain composure. I make a mental note to stab him in the eye with my straw next time I see him.

7:50 a.m. – I’m on the freeway and the traffic is bumper to bumper. I turn on the radio and pick my nose again.

7:52 a.m. – I have extracted a booger the size of a ferret from deep inside my right nostril. I roll down the window and try to flick it off of my finger but it won’t let go of me. It merely adheres itself to one finger after another. I pull my hand back inside and wipe the booger under my seat. The announcer says I’m a disgusting animal. He has no idea.

7:54 a.m. – Some assclown in a pick-up truck cuts me off. I flip him off. He flips me off. I mouth the words “Suck my dick, you fucking asshole” at him. His mouth moves but I have no idea what he’s saying. I imagine that he is accepting my invitation.

7:57 a.m. – The assclown in the pick-up is next to me now. He rolls down his window and invites me to pull over and settle our dispute “like men.” I thank him for the invitation but tell him I’m late for my job as an assassin and will have to kick his long-haired pansy ass another time. I pick my nose.

8:01 a.m. – That new Green Day song comes on. I cranked the volume on the radio, roll down the window, sing as loud as I can. I pretend that my index fingers are drumsticks and my steering wheel is a cherry-ass drum kit, a la Neil Peart from Rush.

8:03 a.m. – A middle-aged woman wearing too much make-up pulls up in a Cadillac next to me at the bottom of the offramp. She throws me a look of disdain, the kind she gives to her cleaning people when there is too much Pledge build-up on her solid oak dining room table. I look at her for a moment and then scream, “Don’t wanna be an American Idiot! The subliminal mindfuck America!” (major emphasis on “fuck”). She shakes her head in disbelief. I am happy that she thinks I’m representative of what’s wrong with society today, so I pick my nose in celebration. Though there is nothing left to extract, I withdraw my finger and pretend to flip a booger at the Cadillac.

8:07 a.m. – I park the Honda in the Employee of the Month parking space near the front of my building. As I open the door, the assclown in the pick-up parks in the stall next to me. I clinch my fists and prepare to tenderize his ass like a skirt steak. He opens his palms in a gesture of peace, tells me he’s starting a new job today. As it turns out, he reports to me. I get him in a headlock and give him noogies just to let him know who’s boss. “Me! That’s who! Me! You got that, asshole?”

8:10 a.m. – My ass hits the chair at my desk and I’m still pissed about the cinnamon twists.

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Other Humans Write

Here are actual questions you asked the presidential candidates when they appeared on your show. To Bush: 'Were y'all spankers?" To Kerry: "Did you ever spank the girls?" To Bush: "Did you spank them?" To Kerry: "What did she do to get spanked?" Hey, Dr. Phil, keep it in your pleated pants. [GQ Magazine, Dec. 2004, pg. 372]